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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602822">darling, you're a holy quarantine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rorarot/pseuds/rorarot'>rorarot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Time Skip, miya atsumu is aggressively in love and would like to get off this ride, vaguely implied osarin and heavily implied bokuaka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:14:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rorarot/pseuds/rorarot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p><i>I don’t need anything else. I have everything.</i><br/> </p>
  <p>And then, a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions: enter Sakusa <i>fucking</i> Kiyoomi.</p>
</blockquote>miya atsumu unwittingly learns that love is stored in a hand sanitizer.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>448</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>darling, you're a holy quarantine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i hated miya atsumu the moment i saw his stupid face and now i can't stop thinking about him. </p><p>1. this is self indulgence deluxe edition, 2. i apologise. </p><p>(title from clusterhug by IDKHOW.) </p><p><b>WARNINGS</b>: alcohol use, a lot of swearing, atsumu goes through a light depressive episode towards the end.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Out of all the people in the world, it's Bokuto Koutarou who hammers the final nail into Atsumu's metaphorical coffin of doom.<br/>
<br/>
It is sometime past midnight, in someone's cramped MSBY-assigned apartment and Hinata Shouyou is spread out across the living room floor, knocked out after who knows how many drinks in. Atsumu feels mildly buzzed, but not as much as Bokuto who's swaying slightly on the floor with a bottle of sake cradled in his arms like a newborn baby. His grey head is inclined back on the couchseat and his massive legs are sprawled over Shouyou's butt.<br/>
<br/>
Atsumu hiccups. Stares into his own beer and thinks he might be a teeny bit drunker than he thought he was. Thinks about how his shoulder still burns where it brushed Sakusa's as they left practice that day. Asks Bokuto Koutarou, apropos of nothing, in the middle of ranking gatorade flavours:<br/>
<br/>
"Oi, Bokkun, how the fuck do ya know when yer in love?"<br/>
<br/>
He tries to stuff each word leaving his mouth with every ounce of the spite he's feeling at the moment - against the world, against the trashy shoujo manga he bingeread during a capital <em> P </em> Phase in his first year of high school which Osamu <em> still </em> won't stop bringing up, against the fact that he already vaguely knows that he’s going to regret this tomorrow morning, and against Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi and his stupid moles and curls and cheekbones and smirk and all of that - Sakusa Kiyoomi-ness. </p><p>Shouyou snorts in his sleep and mutters something about curry buns.<br/>
<br/>
<em> God, fuck, I am so drunk</em>, Atsumu thinks miserably and takes another swig. He watches with detached horror as Bokuto's face slowly transforms from pensive contemplation to sappy within the blink of an eye, his eyes widening, mouth falling slack and stretching into a wide lopsided smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Tsumu," he croons and Atsumu starts chugging his beer to avoid looking at him. "Tsumu, Tsum-Tsum, Tsumu, <em> Tsumu!</em>"<br/>
<br/>
"Forgeddit! I changed my mind," Atsumu declares - slurs - whatever. "I changed it! Shut it, shut it, shu - "<br/>
<br/>
Bokuto flings a free arm backwards and tries to slap Atsumu's thigh encouragingly where he's sprawled upon the couch. He misses his mark and nails him in the face.<br/>
<br/>
"Tsumu, no!" Bokuto says as Atsumu blinks tears out of his eyes and checks his nose for blood and thinks of how Sakusa would delicately wrinkle his nose at the beer he has just spilled over his shirt. "<em>Tsumu</em>!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that’s it," Atsumu mutters. "Fuck me."<br/>
<br/>
"I am way too drunk for this!" Bokuto barrels onwards, oblivious to his misery. “‘M <em> so </em> drunk, Tsum-Tsum!” </p><p>He picks up his legs from Shouyou's derrière and clumsily shifts his broad physique so that he's sitting facing the couch instead, sticking his face into Atsumu’s personal bubble.<br/>
<br/>
"An’ you reek," Atsumu manages to say before his cheeks are clasped between two large overly warm, sweaty hands and squeezed like a volleyball. He vaguely wonders where Bokuto's sake went and whose apartment they're in and who will be cleaning up any resulting spill.<br/>
<br/>
"Love," Bokuto says grandly, unsteadily, blowing gross alcohol breath all over Atsumu's face, "is when you see someone picking their, their nose, like really <em> getting in </em> there, yanno, and think, wow that is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Love is when Keiji smiles at me an’ I - I feel like if he's the only person who ever smiles at me like that, I will be the happiest person in the world."<br/>
<br/>
Bokuto sniffles, his eyes tearing up and oh god, Atsumu has made a <em> severe </em> error in judgement. He thinks of Sakusa digging his nose. Gross. He thinks of Sakusa smiling and sticking his finger into the stupid dimple on his stupid cheek. <em> Grosser</em>.</p><p>"You just..,” Bokuto sniffs. “You just wanna hold their hand all the time, you know?” Atsumu, to his own horror, thinks <em> yeah, I know. </em> “And they know everything about you, even the worst parts, an’ - an’ they accept you anyway an’ you jus’ look at them and everything feels like it will be fine because you are together and thassall that matters, yanno? It makes you calmer than you think you could ever be and you jus’ understand each other so much an’ - I think how - I think it's different for everyone but in the end, you have each other’s backs forever. It’s like havin’ a p-pardner in crime but forever.”<br/>
<br/>
There’s a pause as fat tears drip down Bokuto's cheeks. He is still holding onto Atsumu’s face in a vice-like grip. </p><p>"Aw, shit," he warbles. "I miss Keiji."<br/>
<br/>
"Phone," Atsumu reminds him. Bokuto's face lights up. </p><p>"Phone!" he repeats and lets go of Atsumu. He tries to push himself up, nearly keels over twice, bends down and clasps his hands heavily onto Atsumu shoulders. Looks into his eyes, says as gravely as he can, shit-faced as he is:</p><p>“I think you should tell him.”</p><p>Atsumu gapes at him. “Wha’?” </p><p>Bokuto simply beams his Bokuto Koutarou patented smile at him and slaps his shoulders once, twice, before stumbling off into the kitchen in search of his phone. Atsumu watches him disappear into the doorway. He brings his bottle to his lips to find it empty. His shoulders hurt from Bokuto’s ridiculous strength.</p><p>“Fuckin’ scrub,” he mutters just to say something, and pulls himself off the couch to find a blanket to throw over Shouyou.</p><p>He falls asleep on the couch to Bokuto loudly whispering sweet nothings at Akaashi Keiji in the kitchen and Shouyou snoring loud enough on the floor to make him wish he’d invested in some earbuds. And he decidedly <em> does not </em> dream of kissing Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi under the moonlight.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>It is a well-known fact both within and outside the Japanese volleyball community that Miya Atsumu is somewhat of a jerk.</p><p>Miya Atsumu, well aware of his infinite jerkdom, thrives under the numerous titles bestowed upon him - asshole, brat, egomaniac, narcissist, et cetera, et cetera. He is highly competitive, annoying, selfish and untouchable - and he likes it. He enjoys learning what makes people tick, he likes pulling everyone apart to see how they work, and he <em> especially </em> loves smirking at the despairing players on the other side of the net after one of his spikers nails a toss.</p><p>Miya Atsumu <em> is </em> a jerk, but he likes to pretend that he’s not as much of an asshole as people think he is.</p><p>So when the first time Sakusa Kiyoomi lands a perfect spike to one of his perfect sets during his first year at the All-Japan Youth Intensive Training Camp and he, elated, moves to slap his hand against the spiker’s to find the other guy physically recoiling, the curls not stuck to his temple with sweat bouncing away from Atsumu - he understands. He thinks, <em> okay, so here’s another weirdo! Welcome to the fucking club! </em> And he doesn’t try to touch Sakusa again. </p><p>Because, yeah Miya Atsumu is a big fat jerk but he’s also always a breath away from toppling down like a house of cards and he <em>knows</em> when he sees people of his own kind. If there’s one thing that watching and untangling people has taught him, it’s what someone looks like on the verge of the verge of a breakdown.</p><p>So, years later, when Sakusa Kiyoomi is introduced to the MSBY Black Jackals line-up and their acquaintanceship becomes something more permanent, Atsumu, completely out of professional curiosity and an obsessive need to <em> know </em> everything about everything (everyone) that catches his eye, does what he does best - he observes Sakusa. He’s <em> not </em> creepy about it. He just - hovers (at least a foot away!) beside him occasionally. And Sakusa never tries to kick him away, so he probably doesn’t mind - much. Maybe.</p><p>Two years into being on the same team, Atsumu has compiled a list. </p><p>
  <b>A COMPLETE AND COMPREHENSIVE LIST ON THE HABITS OF SAKUSA KIYOOMI</b>
</p><p>1. He never lets anyone into his apartment. No one except Atsumu has even seen the inside of his apartment. (Atsumu tries and fails to not be too smug about it, even though he’s only seen a glimpse of the bare genkan while trying to wheedle Sakusa into hanging out with the rest of the team for a non-mandatory team bonding session before the door was slammed into his face.)</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>1a. Sakusa requires at least a one (1) day long preparatory period before any activity involving people.</p>
</blockquote><p>2. He pulls his sleeves over his hands to open doors, even when he’s already sanitized the handles. (Infuriatingly cute, how doesn’t he stretch out the sleeves of all his sweatshirts.)</p><p>3. He has a separate antimicrobial towel (green) he likes to spread over the zabuton at the team’s favourite izakaya.</p><p>4. He has another antimicrobial towel (yellow) to sit on couches during their designated team-bonding movie nights.</p><p>5. He has at least three (3) packs of sanitizing wipes on him at all times. One jumbo-sized pack in his bag, one pocket-sized pack in his sweatpants and the last pack stuffed somewhere Sakusa refuses to tell Atsumu.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>5a. Quote, deadpanned during a late-night stroll: <em> No amount of umeboshi will come close to the joy I experience looking at your face while you agonise over not knowing something. </em>(Atsumu takes that as a compliment.)</p>
</blockquote><p>6. Wearing masks is as much of a psychological protection as it is a physical one.</p><p>7. He wrinkles his nose when he’s annoyed or if he’s about to sneeze, so it’s better to get the fuck away from him either way.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>7a. He prefers to sneeze/cough into his elbow and quote, scorned at Atsumu during practice: <em> it would do good to you, Miya, if you did the same</em>. </p>
  <p>7b. The first time the team heard him sneeze everyone within a five feet radius jumped out of their skins. Saying he has a dad sneeze is an overstatement - Atsumu would say that’s a granddad sneeze.</p>
</blockquote><p>8. He has freakishly large knobbly hands attached to his freakishly weird wrists. </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>8a. When he’s feeling uncomfortable (read: surrounded by fans), he squeezes his hands together in front of him and hunches over. Atsumu usually has to squirrel him away by creating a bigger diversion. (Bokuto and Shouyou are usually enthusiastically involved.)</p>
  <p>8b. Atsumu kind of wants to touch the freakish hand and wrist combo. Professional curiosity.</p>
</blockquote><p>9. His wardrobe consists of a total number of Too Many offensively ugly jackets that look like a pack of highlighters vomited all over them.</p><p>10. He is not a morning person and when he wakes up before 9AM for practice, he won’t communicate through anything except for grunts for at least an hour. </p><p>11. He loves historical books and movies which Atsumu pretends to hate because watching Sakusa get riled over something never gets  any less hilarious.</p><p>12. He sleeps like a goddamn mummy, on his back and arms folded over his stomach. </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>12a. Atsumu somehow always ends up being his roommate when they stay at hotels for away games. He isn’t complaining.</p>
</blockquote><p>13. When he’s doing something he likes he does this thing -</p><p>
  <b>[CUT FOR LENGTH]</b>
</p><p>Atsumu realises he’s fucked as soon as he reaches number 50, a year into his new hobby (<em> “50. He sticks out his tongue an inch and bites onto it when he’s about to nail a service ace, K.O.ing any Atsumus in his vicinity.” </em>) and calls Osamu at two in the morning on a Wednesday.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Osamu greets him. “Ya better be dyin’.”</p><p>“Sumu,” Atsumu moans. “I know too much ‘bout Omi-Omi. He’s crossed a line.”</p><p>Osamu hangs up. He calls back exactly five seconds later and Atsumu picks up before the first dial tone is through.</p><p>“Have ya thought that maybe ya like him?”</p><p>Atsumu feels like he’s swallowed a volleyball and refuses to reply. He thinks of hanging up.</p><p>“Or maybe,” Osamu continues, “yer just a creepy stalker.”</p><p>“Stalkers are not mindful of boundaries. I’m doin’ this so I <em> don’t </em> overstep boundaries or some shit,” Atsumu seethes. “Shut yer ass up.”</p><p>“Yer making a list of all the things you like about a guy in a little notebook.”</p><p>Atsumu does hang up this time. Calls back five seconds later and Osamu picks up before the first dial tone is through.</p><p>“The fuck do I do about this, Samu?”</p><p>Osamu grunts and Atsumu hears sheets rustling as he gets out of bed. “Dunno, smooch him or sumn'.”</p><p>“I am not gonna smooch that ass, dickweed,”</p><p>Osamu exhales a laugh. “Smooch that ass, Tsumu.”</p><p>“Yer brother’s havin’ a fucking crisis here.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m cryin’ real tears. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Osamu says over the sound of a door opening. “M’gonna pee and then get back in bed with my cute as fuck boyfriend I got without making a creepy stalker notebook about him. And yer gonna go back to sleep and dream ‘bout the crush ya definitely have. Ya wanna listen to me piss or?”</p><p>“I don’t,” Atsumu hisses, “have a - a - <em>crush - .” </em>He cuts himself off and gags when hears the sound of liquid running. “Ya <em>fucking</em> <em>asshole</em>, I hope yer dick gets flushed!” </p><p>He hangs up and throws his phone to the other side of the room. Then he climbs out of bed to see if his screen cracked (<em>nope</em>, one for Atsumu, zero for Osamu). He sits on the floor instead of going back to his bed and taps his bitten down fingers over the dark screen of his phone. He doesn’t move for a long time.</p><p>(Another year passes and he hits 120 items on his creepy stalker list.)</p><p> </p><p> --</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu wakes up to a masked, vaguely displeased face hovering over him and he squawks and falls off the couch. He groans, clutching his head as it pulses with pain. </p><p>“Miya.”</p><p>Atsumu groans again and presses his face into the cold floor. </p><p>“That is disgusting.”</p><p>Atsumu turns his head so his cheek rests on the floor and cracks open an eye to see Sakusa Kiyoomi standing over him, a shoulder bag hanging off his broad chest, and Atsumu would mourn the fact that he can’t see his nose scrunching up with distaste under that fucking mask if his brain wasn’t currently trying to escape his skull. The floor is slightly sticky under his hands and cheek, and he vaguely remembers Bokuto losing his sake when -</p><p>Oh. Oh, <em> shit</em>.</p><p>“Can you have your existential crisis somewhere other than the floor.”</p><p>Atsumu puffs out a breath of air. “Omi-Omi,” he says hoarsely and winces. He’s fucking parched. “Watcha doin’ here.”</p><p>Sakusa finally flutters away towards the kitchen. “Akaashi-san called. Said you guys were being stupid last night and would need someone to kick your asses awake.” He pauses at the doorway and turns back to where Atsumu is sprawled. “It’s noon. Painkiller’s on the table.” And he’s gone.</p><p>Atsumu blinks. Blinks some more. Picks himself up and stares, stunned, at the kitchen doorway for the second time in the last 24 hours. He turns his head towards the table they’d pushed to the side last night and sure enough, there’s a glass of water (covered and all, Sakusa’s a fucking maniac) and a strip of painkillers set next to it. He manages to stand up and makes his way over. He pops a painkiller out and chases it down with the water. His eyes glance over to the stupid bowl of hydrogel balls at the centre of the table and thinks, <em> ah</em>. So it’s Bokuto’s apartment.</p><p>“Where’s the rest of ‘em?” he says out loud.</p><p>“Hinata is back in his apartment and Bokuto is in the shower,” comes the answer from the kitchen, over the clang of metal against metal. The day doesn’t feel real as Atsumu follows the noise to its source.</p><p>The kitchen isn’t big enough for two people to stand comfortably with enough space between them, especially when one of them is sweaty, smelly and hungover and the other would have a panic attack if anything smelly, sweaty and hungover breached his personal space, so Atsumu leans against the doorway and watches Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi crack open an egg to make him brunch. He feels like if he breathes too hard the moment will shatter so he just stares and wishes his mouth didn’t feel as if a mouse had crawled inside and died.</p><p>“You look like shit,” Sakusa eventually says as he scrambles his eggs with a wooden spoon. Atsumu squawks automatically and surreptitiously raises a hand to pat his hair down.</p><p>“<em>Ya </em> look like shit, bastard.”</p><p>“I really don’t,” Sakusa mutters. “You smell.”</p><p>Atsumu does not pout. He glares at Sakusa’s broad back. “Fuck off,” he says. “Isn’t wearin’ a mask while cooking a fire hazard?”</p><p>Sakusa finally turns and looks at him balefully. “I’d rather be set on fire than have nothing between me and your noxious fumes.”</p><p>“Ya don’t have to cook for me if ya hate me so much, yanno.”</p><p>Atsumu keeps his gaze trained on the pan and Sakusa turns back to it.</p><p>“It’s not for you. I didn’t have breakfast before coming here.”</p><p>Atsumu smirks lazily. “Five eggs? That’s kinda overkill, even fer an athlete.”</p><p>“If you don’t shut up, I’ll decide I have a bigger appetite.”</p><p>Sakusa <em> would</em>, because Sakusa ran on spite and tears and Atsumu is fucking starving. So Sakusa cooks and he watches. He doesn't know how long he stands and looks at Sakusa practicing domesticity as if he does this every day and isn't shaking the very foundations of Atsumu’s very being right now. </p><p>Bokuto interrupts his trance, clattering in from his room, looking like a drowned owl with wet hair sticking to his head. He greets him with a too-bright, too-knowing smile as he passes by to get to the fridge. The bastard doesn’t even look remotely hungover.</p><p>“Keiji’s decided to come over for the weekend so I’ll be going to the train station to pick him up!” Bokuto says as he takes out a Pocari Sweat, “Tsum-Tsum, you can use my shower, I left some of my clothes out for you. I’ll have to skip breakfast, though, sorry Omi-kun, but I’m sure you both can manage.” He punctuates his sentence by winking at Atsumu, embarrassingly obvious. </p><p>Atsumu grimaces and thanks the forces that be that Sakusa is too laser-focused on buttering toast to notice Bokuto try his hand at being covert. Bokuto squeezes past him and clatters out the door with a loud <em> bye, be back in an hour or two, make yourselves at home! </em>Atsumu can’t decide if he wants to have a Serious Conversation with him about last night and the importance of forgetting everything that he might have said, or take the first plane out of Japan.</p><p>“Shower,” Sakusa says immediately after the front door slams shut. “Go. You’re not eating while you stink.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah.”</p><p>Atsumu grabs the clothes Bokuto left out for him on his way to the bathroom and as soon as he’s inside, takes a moment to lean his head against the slick tiles and breathe. His breath stinks, his headache is light but omnipresent and his body aches but he can’t stop from letting a foolish grin creep spread across his face. He wants to punch something. He wants to look at Sakusa forever. He wants Sakusa to look at him forever.</p><p>God, he’s such a fucking mess.</p><p>He scrounges up his spare toothbrush, a remnant of the many sleepovers the Bokuto household has hosted, and brushes out the dead animal between his teeth. He sits in the scalding shower until the water runs cold and the entire, he can’t stop feeling nauseous with whatever the fuck disease he contracts whenever Sakusa Kiyoomi is within ten feet of him. (He does not think about last night.)</p><p>When he finally comes out he finds Sakusa, now unmasked, vigorously sanitizing the rickety dining table pressed against the only window in the living-cum-dining room. Sakusa looks up and nods at one of the chairs. “Sit,” he says, his voice entwined with a familiar petulant vein. “I’ll get the food.”</p><p>Atsumu slumps into the chair and pushes his wet hair back. Sakusa comes back and clatters a plate of eggs and toast in front of him and a mug of coffee. He takes a seat across from him with his own plate with a mug of tea. He stabs at the eggs with his fork as Atsumu shoves a piece of toast into his mouth. Thank <em> fuck </em> for Akaashi.</p><p>“Ya really know how to treat a guy,” Atsumu says since he can’t keep his mouth shut and barrels into rooms for the sole purpose of bare-handedly beating up any semblance of peace in them with his fists. </p><p>Sakusa glares at him and stabs at his eggs again with fervor, as if imagining they’re Atsumu’s spleen. Atsumu doesn’t blame him. He takes a sip of coffee and pauses. Sips again. </p><p>Offensive, <em> perfect </em> amounts of milk and sugar that neither Suna nor Osamu would stop ragging on him about. (Even Kita-san had shook his head disappointedly at him at an Inarizaki training camp when he’d come across Atsumu making his coffee in the dorm kitchen at 3 AM.)</p><p>Sakusa is watching him pensively when Atsumu finally catches his eye. “What?” he asks.</p><p>“Is there something wrong with the coffee?” </p><p>“Nah,” Atsumu says, looking away and busies himself with taking another tentative sip. “‘S perfect. Was jus’ surprised.”</p><p>Sakusa’s brow unfurrows and Atsumu doesn’t know what to think about Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi knowing how he likes his coffee.</p><p>“Drinking too much milk is bad for you because you’re not five,” Sakusa says because he’s probably done his bachelor’s in being a dick. “And you’re going to become diabetic by thirty.”</p><p>Atsumu flings his leg forward under the table and kicks at Sakusa’s chair. Sakusa scowls at him thunderously but it doesn’t have any <em>real</em> thunder in it. He’s donned in an eyesore of a neon pink sweatshirt and grey sweatpants and clearly hasn’t run a comb through the rat’s nest perched on his head. He looks objectively disgusting. He looks achingly soft. </p><p>“Asshole,” Atsumu says but can’t stop his lips from twitching into a grin. Sakusa almost smiles back.</p><p><em> Why do ya remember how I like my coffee? </em> he wants to ask.</p><p>“Eggs’re good too,” he says instead, breaking eye contact so that his heart can settle down. He shovels in a mouthful. “Didn’t know ya could cook 'n all.”</p><p>Sakusa’s mouth twists to a side. “You don’t know a lot of things,” he says.</p><p>"Ouch,” Atsumu says, and Osamu <em> has </em> always said he doesn’t have any self-preservation skills: “Ya know, you coulda just kicked us awake and left. But ya can’t lie to me<em>, </em> ” he throws in a wink and his hands twitch with the need to punch himself in the face. “Ya <em> care </em> ‘bout us.” <em> And consequently about me too, right? Fuck you. </em> “Looks like you got half your cleaning supplies here. I know for a fact that Bokkun doesn’t have fuckin’ <em> cup covers</em>.”</p><p>Sakusa looks a hair’s breadth away from stabbing Atsumu with the fork for real. His eye twitches and Atsumu waits, shit-eating grin and all. </p><p>“Akaashi-san,” Sakusa starts, looking vaguely constipated (Atsumu, resigned, finds this kind of nauseatingly cute too).</p><p>“Akaashi-san?” Atsumu prompts, just to be annoying. </p><p>“Shut up. Eat.”</p><p>They eat.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>When Atsumu and Osamu were seven, before Atsumu fell in love with volleyball and physically dragged Osamu into it, their grandmother gifted them a set of poster colour paints in the hopes of giving his mother a moment of peace and quiet. The twins spent an entire afternoon hunched over the low living room table pressing their hands into paint and sticking them on sheets of paper.</p><p>Until Atsumu’s hand slipped and they looked on in horror as the little jar with the orange paint flung onto the curtains and -</p><p><em> Shumu did sumn’ bad! </em>Osamu yelled. Atsumu slapped a green hand over Osamu’s mouth but his mother had already thundered in from the kitchen. She grimaced at the mess.</p><p><em> Tsumu</em>, she said immediately because it was always <em> Tsumu. </em>She gripped his arm tightly and pulled him back. <em> Why the hell did ya have to do that, now? I’ll clean it up, both of ya to your room. I’ll draw a bath. </em></p><p>Later, he’d listened to his mother speak to his father at night, creeping down the hallway barefoot to the living room after Osamu had fallen asleep. </p><p><em> I dunno where I went wrong with him, </em>she’d said, so, so tiredly as his father examined the bright orange on the yellow curtains. <em> He’s a tiny homewrecker, that’s what he is. At least Samu’s turnin' out all right. </em></p><p>His father had just clicked his tongue. </p><p>It wasn’t much but his stomach had twisted into itself for reasons he didn’t understand then, so he’d curled his toes over the cold flooring and quietly returned to his room. </p><p>After that, after a million little pieces of evidence he’d overlooked for ages, it didn’t take much time for him to realise that people became his friends because they were Osamu's friends. They put up with him because they wanted to play with Osamu. Osamu, with the wicked wit, with the calmness of a still lake. <br/>
<br/>
<em> Whatever</em>, he thought, <em> I don't need them anyway</em>.<br/>
<br/>
A year later he found volleyball. </p><p>There has always been something hungry gnawing in his chest which only satiated itself when he threw himself headfirst into the sport. He was always going to be the little oni, the problem child, the big, terrible mistake, the boy with a mouth bigger than his body. Atsumu was born kicking and screaming, with a hunger for anything and everything, a hunger so vast that Osamu tells him it’s a miracle he didn’t eat him in the womb.</p><p>He devoured volleyball or volleyball devoured him - the technicalities were vague but what mattered was that volleyball was <em> his.</em> He was good at it. He had Osamu at his side. He would run his ten fingers over the grooves of the ball, the smooth leather yielding ever so slightly under his grip, and - an offering, sailing right into the open palm of the spiker.<br/>
<br/>
Outside of volleyball, he created messes, and he never knew how to clean them up. But he always knew what to do with a ball.<br/>
<br/>
This is all he wanted. This is all he deserves. <em> I don't need anything else, </em> he’d thought, and then: <em> I want everything. </em>  </p><p>So he fought his way through all the special training camps, practiced until he had more calluses than fingers, ignored everything and everyone - even himself, especially himself sometimes - in favour of the game, hurtled through high school into (finally, <em> finally - </em> he was good at this) an established pro-team - he lost Osamu along the way but volleyball remained.</p><p>
  <em> I don’t need anything else. I have everything. </em>
</p><p>And then, a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions: enter Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Akaashi Keiji, in Miya Atsumu’s opinion, is the scariest man who's ever walked under the sun. He doesn’t look like much - with his modest suit, modest glasses, modestly brushed hair and modest eyebags that come in a buy-one-get-one sale with having deadlines and sitting at a desk for long hours. He looks comically normal when he stands beside wild-haired, bright-eyed Bokuto.</p><p>And <em>then</em> he lays on Atsumu an assessing glance that seems to cut past all of his bullshit, leaving him with flashbacks to dreams of walking naked in school hallways. Atsumu feels the embarrassing urge to take advantage of the four centimetres Sakusa has on him and hide.</p><p>He chooses <em> not </em> to do that and give Sakusa even more ammunition.</p><p>“Good afternoon, Atsumu-san,” the devil says as he sets down his overnight bag on the living room table (now back to where it was, courtesy of Atsumu after being mentally prodded at by Sakusa’s narrowed insistent eyes). “And you, Sakusa-san. We apologise for running so late. Hope you both are doing well.”</p><p>Sakusa hums in reply and Atsumu, his ass barely touching the edge of the couch, says, “Ya know me - ‘m goin’ splendid, Keiji-kun, and <em> now </em> m’going home and Omi-Omi is comin’ with me. Arentcha, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu looks over at Sakusa sitting on his antimicrobial towel (yellow) on the other end of the couch, leaning forward far enough to not touch the back cushion, and he thinks he manages to sound only a little bit desperate. Sakusa just raises an imperious eyebrow at him.</p><p>“Ah,” Akaashi interjects, “Sakusa-san, we stopped by Onigiri Miya and bought some umeboshi onigiri, if you’d like it.”</p><p>“Yeah!” Bokuto yells from the kitchen. “I’m getting it! They’re wrapped and all, Omi-kun!”</p><p>Akaashi smiles at Atsumu and he sits down on a free armchair. Atsumu feels a vein throb in his forehead. Sakusa shows no outward reaction but his fingers twitch and Atsumu knows this is a battle lost. </p><p>“Osamu-san wishes you well, Atsumu-san.”</p><p>“Of course he does,” Atsumu mutters. His leg jiggles. He wonders when the world became so fucking small that he couldn’t exist without tripping over ten people who know people he knows.</p><p>Bokuto enters the room holding aloft a plate of individually wrapped onigiris like a trophy. He sets the plate on the table, grabs two onigiris and sits down with a creak on the arm of Akaashi’s armchair. He passes an onigiri to his boyfriend and Akaashi thanks him with a soft smile. Bokuto beams back and lays an arm around the back of the armchair. Akaashi leans subtly into his side. </p><p>Bokuto always has a restlessness to him, his eyes darting from side to side looking for the next thing to pour all his entire attention into, but whenever he is with Akaashi he looks - settled. Like the thing that’s always humming inside him finally lays down to rest when it enters within the vicinity of Akaashi Keiji.</p><p>Atsumu kind of wants to throw up and it only has a little to do with the hangover.</p><p>Sakusa procures a sanitizing napkin to cover his palm with and carefully extracts an onigiri from the pile. He  expertly wipes down the transparent cover - Atsumu really doesn’t understand <em> why </em> but he appreciates seeing those hands in motion so he keeps his mouth shut. Which is why he starts when the onigiri is shoved into his hands. Sakusa picks up another onigiri and repeats the entire process. </p><p>Atsumu stares at the onigiri in his hand - his favourite, tuna and spring onion - looks at the onigiri in Sakusa’s hand - umeboshi - and then looks at Bokuto and Akaashi looking at him. Akaashi is clearly suppressing a smile and Bokuto isn’t even bothering with the suppressing part. Atsumu looks away and back to the onigiri in his hand. </p><p>Sakusa looks up at where Atsumu is sitting frozen, his mouth twisted with displeasure. “Are you going to eat that?”</p><p>Atsumu musters up enough of the shreds of his bravado to let out a forced laugh. “Yep, jus’ siking up to it, had a heavy brunch, thanks to ya,” he says like he doesn’t have the proclivity to eat anything and everything that’s set in front of him, no matter the time and place. Sakusa looks at him suspiciously and takes a bite of his onigiri.</p><p>Atsumu pensively stuffs his face as Akaashi strikes up a conversation about the best onigiri fillings. Sakusa answers as enthusiastically as he’s capable of being - that is, four more words per sentence compared to his usual one word retorts because everyone respects Akaashi, even the assholes. </p><p>It’s the most awkward after-brunch Saturday snack he’s ever had.</p><p>Later, Sakusa gingerly packs his towel, sanitizer and cup covers back into his bag and slings it around his shoulder. When they’re finally leaving (escaping), Akaashi catches Atsumu just at the edge of freedom before he can follow Sakusa outside, his steady gaze burning holes into him. </p><p>“Atsumu-san,” he says pleasantly, so, so pleasantly. “I wish you the best of luck.”</p><p>Atsumu fucking books it.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa Kiyoomi moves into the apartment across the hall from Atsumu on the hottest day of the year - and no, that wasn’t a euphemism. Mostly.</p><p>Atsumu leans against his doorway alone, watching Sakusa and his cousin, the libero Komori Motoya bring in box after box donned in face masks and gloves. Bokuto, bored after fifteen minutes, is entertaining himself inside his apartment if the hollering and crashing is anything to go by. Atsumu has managed to catch Sakusa’s eye twice and both times the other man acted as if he was seeing through him, though his friend smiles genially at him between trips. </p><p>The last time he’d met Sakusa, the man was a few centimetres shorter, in his hideous highlighter Itachiyama jacket with his hair a little longer and a face way too pretty for a scowly skittish teenager who vanished the second he stepped off court with an agility impressive for someone his size. His team had also just creamed Inarizaki at the Spring Tournament Nationals, but Atsumu likes to gloss over that can of worms.</p><p>Six years later, Sakusa is still infuriatingly pretty, if not <em> prettier</em>, and clearly hasn’t lost any love for neon jackets despite the scalding weather.  Atsumu, clad only in his Vabo-chan patterned boxers, idly marvels at the wonders the passage of time can wreck on someone’s physique as he ogles at the muscles straining against the fabric of Sakusa’s jacket when he and his libero struggle up the stairs with a couch.</p><p>“Sure ya don’t need help?” he calls as Komori stumbles a step and yelps, trying to steady himself and the couch.</p><p>“Yes,” Sakusa grits out finally and his voice is huskier and deeper than Atsumu remembers. “We don’t. Shut up.”</p><p>“He’s just a little weird about who touches his things,” Komori calls back. “Please don’t take it personally.”</p><p>Atsumu shoots Sakusa’s back a wolf-like grin. “Oh, ya don’t needta worry ‘bout <em> me</em>.”</p><p>Sakusa snorts and it only stings a little.</p><p>They finally manage to get the couch up and into the apartment and then a small table, a television set, chairs, another table, another few boxes. Atsumu grows tired of gawking at them halfway in and goes back inside his apartment when he hears a particularly large <em> crash</em>. He finds all the furniture in his living room arranged in the middle to form a makeshift net, with Bokuto playing a complicated one-man game with Atsumu’s practice ball involving a lot of yelling and tripping over nothing.</p><p>“<em>Oi</em>,” he seethes, “who toldja ya could practice yer receives <em> inside my goddamn house</em>?”</p><p>After Atsumu has kicked the idiot out of his apartment (after a few rounds of the complicated now-two-man game - Atsumu isn't beneath having fun), he looks at the closed door in front of him, thinks of the way sweat traveled down Sakusa’s hairline to beneath his mask and rolls his eyes at himself.</p><p>He just hopes that Sakusa’s spikes have improved enough to make up for the filthy attitude.</p><p>(They have.)</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu spends the day nursing his hangover by drinking a beer and mindlessly scrolling through his phone, not thinking about Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi wiping down onigiris for him or devils wearing glasses. He childishly leaves all the texts Osamu sends him on read.</p><p>He wonders what Sakusa’s doing, what surface he is sanitizing right now and then forces himself to not to think about it by watching a terrible B-rated horror movie.</p><p>Atsumu isn’t someone people <em> like</em>, and Sakusa may be a right bastard too but that doesn’t take away the fact that the possibility of whatever it is between them becoming real is impossible - it always has been, with anyone. He ruins anything he touches and the tenuous friendship-rivalry-whatever between them has always been just a nudge away from toppling down. Miya Atsumu is someone made for half-hearted flings and one-night stands - no feelings on either side, no one to inevitably disappoint and no, he isn’t trying to run away from anything, <em> Osamu </em>.</p><p>So, no. No matter how many onigiris Sakusa sanitizes for him, no matter what Sakusa may even feel for him - he cannot let one of the few good things he has apart from volleyball fall into his clumsy hands and torn apart.</p><p>At 1 AM, when he finally picks himself up in order to turn in, the moment his head touches his pillow, he decides he cannot sleep. He stands right back up, shoots off a text because he knows the bastard will be awake, and without waiting for a reply, puts on a sweatshirt and shoes, grabs his wallet and keys, stuffs a hand sanitizer and a pack of wipes into his pocket and opens the door - to find Sakusa, packed and masked as usual, poised to knock.</p><p>He’s greeted with a scowl and something in his heart settles. He wonders if he has any latent masochistic tendencies that come into play whenever Sakusa enters his head. </p><p>He smiles slyly.</p><p>“Yer enthusiastic.”</p><p>Sakusa sniffs and starts walking down the hallway. “I wasn’t asleep.”</p><p>“I know, ya ass,” Atsumu says, but follows him anyway. </p><p>This is something they’ve been doing for almost a year now - walking around the block at godawful hours when there’s no one on the streets for Sakusa to cower from, filling up on vending machine snacks. It had started when Sakusa found Atsumu brooding on the staircase leading up to the door to the apartment complex at three in the morning. Maybe <em> found </em> was a light word. Sakusa had taken one look at him and maybe it was the absence of any sleazy response that had encouraged him to kick Atsumu’s thigh hard, order him to get up and walk away - already expecting him to follow. It had pissed Atsumu off. (He had followed him anyway.)</p><p>They do it on most weekends and days before they don’t have practice. Atsumu doesn’t like to think about the implications of any of it.</p><p>Sakusa is wearing one of his tamer jackets - a dull mauve, Atsumu notes faintly. His freaky hands are tucked in his pockets and his sweatpants are a plain grey, his mask folded under his chin.</p><p>“I don’t know what’s the point of wearing a sweatshirt with shorts,” Sakusa says as walks through the entry door Atsumu holds open for him. “Choose a season.”</p><p>“I’m feelin’ like peach juice today,” Atsumu says, choosing to ignore him. “Whaddaya think?”</p><p>Sakusa slides him a disdainful glance. “Orange,” he relents when Atsumu keeps looking at expectantly.</p><p>They walk to their usual vending machine haunt, attached to a nearby park and Atsumu selects their drinks and tries to do what he always does - wipe off the Sakusa’s can with one of his wipes and pass it to him and repeat the same with his own can for the hell of it. </p><p>But doing it after what happened this morning feels - weird. There’s something in the air between them, something beyond the easy companionship they’ve settled into in the past few months, something that has existed ever since he woke up to see Sakusa looking at him and making him <em> brunch</em>, ever since Sakusa wiped off that damn onigiri with for him like <em> that </em> was ever normal, ever since he opened the door to find Sakusa - standing there, like he’s always been there and it’s getting worse because Atsumu is trying to do what he mindlessly does every week and he still feels like he’s doing something incredibly out of his depth, like he’s opening a door that he knows should remain closed. Atsumu feels wobbly, like he’s trying to balance on a boat out in the sea.</p><p>When he looks up, Sakusa is staring at him with an indescribable look on his face. He doesn’t say anything.</p><p><em> It’s just a fuckin’ can, ya overdramatic bitch</em>, Atsumu tells himself and forces himself to go through his usual motions. He gives it to Sakusa who accepts it and holds it limply by his side. </p><p>Atsumu cracks open his juice and drinks to soothe his suddenly dry throat. He looks out into the park. He feels the words on the tip of his tongue. </p><p>Maybe the something has existed ever since he locked eyes with the bastard over that stupid mask and his box full of cleaning supplies.</p><p>“Ya know, I watched the worst movie today,” he tells the swingset, curling the fingers of the free hand tucked into his pocket into a fist. “Wanna hear me talk about it?”</p><p>He hears Sakusa let out a breath. There’s the pop of a can opening. </p><p>“You’re going to tell it to me either way.”</p><p>Atsumu exhales a laugh. And he starts talking.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p><em> From </em> <b> Brosamu [Onigiri Emoji]</b></p><p>lol heard u were wining n dining w ur guy 2day<br/>
<em> 2:09 PM </em></p><p>r u freaking out lmao<br/>
<em> 2:12 PM </em></p><p>hey <br/>
<em> 2:20 PM </em></p><p>tsumu<br/>
<em> 3:00 PM </em></p><p>stop leaving me on read i know you are reading these you big baby wtf!!!<br/>
<em> 4:00 PM </em></p><p>hello<br/>
<em> 4:07 PM </em></p><p>hello<br/>
<em> 4:10 PM </em></p><p>are you okay<br/>
<em> 4:45 PM </em></p><p>tsumu stop rejecting my calls<br/>
<em> 5:00 PM </em></p><p>MIYA ATSUMU<br/>
<em> 7:00 PM </em></p><p>HELLO<br/>
<em> 7:12 PM </em></p><p>hello<br/>
<em> 8:00 PM </em></p><p>
  <b>[</b>
  <b>CUT FOR LENGTH]</b>
</p><p> </p><p><em>To</em> <strong>Brosamu</strong><b> [Onigiri Emoji]</b></p><p>yikes im fine :/<br/>
<em> 3:00 AM </em></p><p>clingy<br/>
<em> 3:00 AM </em></p><p>im kinda fucked tho ngl lol<br/>
<em> 3:06 AM </em></p><p>（〜^∇^)〜<br/>
<em> 3:06 AM </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu is held together with an ego the size of a small planet, as fragile as a balloon filled with with a touch too much air and sometimes it only takes a bad night’s sleep for it to pop. </p><p>He wakes up to the screech of his alarm and a crushing heaviness, and <em> knows </em> that he’s in for a super deluxe extra terrible time. He slams his hand on the nightstand, grabbing his phone and throwing it across the room. The screeching doesn’t stop and he groans and forces himself out of bed. He switches his alarm off and blinks through his headache as he moves to the bathroom, deciding to skip his morning run. He leans heavily against the cool tiles as he multitasks brushing his teeth and showering, and thinks about skipping and staying in his empty apartment all day and then thinks about the daily quota of serves he needs to practice today or he might fuck up their chances in the upcoming match.</p><p>It still takes him double the time it usually takes him to get ready.</p><p>(It has been months since he’s had a bad day.)</p><p>He doesn’t look at the door across from the hall as he locks his door and leaves for practice. Sakusa always leaves early to take advantage of the empty gym, even if he hates waking up in the mornings.</p><p>Things have been - weird - ever since two weeks ago. They still go on walks at night and bicker during the day, but sometimes Atsumu catches Sakusa drilling a hole into his head with his gaze and other times, it’s Sakusa who finds Atsumu gawking at him. They always, always immediately avert their gazes when it happens and pretend everything’s normal. </p><p>(Atsumu still isn’t giving up on hoping, fearing that this is all in head and he’s looking for meanings in things which have none.)</p><p>When he enters the locker room, a persistent headache still niggles at the back of his head and he feels like he’s wading through thick sludge. He’s greeted by Bokuto, already dressed in training gear, and nods back with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. </p><p>“You okay, Tsumu?” </p><p>Atsumu grunts. “Eh.”</p><p>He dodges Bokuto’s hand when he tries to check his temperature. “I’m <em> fine</em>, Bokkun.”</p><p>Bokuto looks at him doubtfully and Atsumu ignores him, concentrating on changing. He just needs to get on court and hit a few service aces. </p><p>There’s a clatter from the doorway as Shouyou enters, bag slung over his shoulder. </p><p>“Tsumu-san, Bokuto-san, good morning!” </p><p>Atsumu winces at the volume, but manages to wave lazily. He sidles out of the locker room as soon as he finishes. Shouyou sticks his head out the doorway as Atsumu leaves.</p><p>“Are you okay, Tsumu-san?” he calls.</p><p>“Absolutely, just a little headache,” Atsumu replies flippantly, not turning back. "When am I <em>not</em> okay?"</p><p> </p><p>Turns out it isn’t a little headache.</p><p>Atsumu feels his temper worsen at every flubbed toss and out of bounds service. It isn’t too different from how he usually plays, but there’s enough of a difference for the pro-level athletes surrounding him to feel the change. His teammates keep his mouth shut about all the fuck-ups he makes and it’s enough to make Atsumu feel even worse. He wonders if Bokuto and Shouyou blabbed to the coach and captain so they don’t get on his case today and wants to die rather than feel the guilt coursing through his veins and choking his lungs. </p><p>On top of it all, Sakusa keeps glancing at him during breaks, his brows furrowed and gripping his water bottle as if he can’t figure out if he wants to deck Atsumu with it or forcefully hydrate him.</p><p>“What is wrong with you?” Sakusa finally asks when Atsumu sets him a slightly lower toss than usual - only after slamming the ball onto the other side of the court, of course. <em> Perfect ass</em>, Atsumu thinks miserably.</p><p>Bokuto frantically makes slicing gestures at his neck behind the net, blatantly in Atsumu’s line of sight. </p><p>“Omi-kun,” he hisses loudly, “<em>abort mission.</em>”</p><p>Atsumu’s cheeks ache as he forces his lips to stretch into a smarmy grin. </p><p>“Just testin’ ya. Gotta keep everyone on their toes, yanno, <em> even </em> my spikers, Omi-Omi.”</p><p>Sakusa narrows his eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait. They continue and Atsumu tries and fails not to fuck up.</p><p>He hates it when he gets like this. Things are going fine and then one day there’s a weight in his chest and nothing he’s doing seems to work. The feeling brewing in his gut coupled with his drive for perfectionism manifest into a shitty headache and an even shittier performance. </p><p>He’s livid.</p><p>His anger continues to build - every missed toss, service, pass, until he finally loses it during their cool-down session at the end of the day.</p><p>He kicks a volleyball to the other end of the court. There’s silence as everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to look at him. Atsumu pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>“Atsumu,” Meian says. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“I’m gonna go have a moment,” Atsumu says to the walls, his voice strangled. “Outside. Alone. Would like it if no one follows me.”</p><p>And he leaves.</p><p> </p><p>He ends up on the stairs leading to the back entrance of the gym, his fists clenched between his legs, the sweat he’d worked up freezing on his back. He maybe cries a little, grits his teeth and waits for the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach to pass. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, hunched over himself. His back starts to ache after a while. And then -</p><p>“You are a mess.”</p><p>Atsumu snorts, wet and gross. Of course, just his luck - Sakusa <em> fucking </em>Kiyoomi being sent out to mop up the remains of his ego into a dustpan. He runs a hand roughly down his face, trying to wipe off any stray tears. His headache is still an afterthought at the back of his mind, though he feels a little clearer after his self pity sob session.</p><p>“Yeah, yer tellin’ me.”</p><p>“I never said I wasn’t one too,” Sakusa says placidly and folds his broad frame down onto the step next to him - not a towel in sight. He’s changed back into normal clothes and is holding both his and Atsumu’s bags in his lap. His hair is damp from his shower.</p><p>“The fuck are ya doing?”</p><p>Sakusa gives him his patented unimpressed look - full lips pressed together, dark eyes half-lidded and unamused. He circles the fingers of his right hand over his left wrist, thumb at his pulse.</p><p>“Sitting,” he says.</p><p>“Sitting,” Atsumu repeats, incredulous. “I’m everything ya hate right now. Yer butt must be  crawlin’ with creepy crawlies right now. Ya really want me to wipe my snotty hands over yer face?”</p><p>Sakusa stares at him with his nose all scrunched up. Atsumu feels like his chest is on fire.</p><p>“You know,” Sakusa says slowly, “you’re stupider than you think you are.”</p><p>Atsumu blinks. Blinks again. “Wow!” he manages. “<em>Wow</em>. Thanks, that really helps - ya know what, ya can just fuck righ’ back -”</p><p>“You wouldn’t touch me without permission,” Sakusa says to his hands. “You’re stupid,” he repeats.</p><p>Atsumu shuts up. He feels like he’s on a precipice - dangling over the edge, his fingers scrabbling uselessly onto loose soil. The leftover anger from his little meltdown has evaporated and all that’s left in its place is a bone-deep ache. He is so tired. His eyes itch - he’s all cried out. He's always been too afraid to rub at them ever since Osamu told him his eyes would pop inside his sockets if he pressed too hard when they were twelve. He wants to fiddle with something - a volleyball - but all he can do is scratch at the bitten off skin surrounding his nails. </p><p>He watches Sakusa’s thumb tap with his pulse on his wrist and thinks for what it feels like the millionth time about touching those hands. Sakusa smells of antiseptic and something sweeter - he wants to ask what shampoo Sakusa uses. </p><p>Atsumu breathes.</p><p>He wonders if he’s always been so fucking useless at everything except the game.</p><p>Sakusa suddenly exhales heavily and Atsumu watches frozen like a deer in the headlights as he lifts the hand wrapped around his wrist and covers Atsumu's fidgeting hands with one large warm one.</p><p>His breath hitches. “What the fuck.”</p><p>“Don’t do that,” Sakusa says quietly. “Come over.”</p><p>“<em>What the fuck</em>,” Atsumu repeats with feeling,</p><p>“Come to my apartment. You can do your creepy volleyball thing, I think I have a practice ball somewhere.”</p><p>“That doesn’t answer my question,” Atsumu replies somewhat hysterically. He’d expected Sakusa’s hands to be cooler. He doesn't know why Sakusa knows about his creepy volleyball thing. Has he talked about it? Why does he talk so much.</p><p>“I’m not asking again. And you’ll have to take a shower before you sit anywhere.” Sakusa stands up and Atsumu’s hands feel colder than they’ve ever been. After a moment of hesitation, Sakusa re-extends his hand towards Atsumu. </p><p>As if in a trance, Atsumu slides a hand into Sakusa’s and lets him pull him up. He feels - steadier.</p><p>Sakusa drops his hand in an aborted motion. He’s looking somewhere over Atsumu’s shoulder and Atsumu, regaining some of his old self, finds himself suppressing a faint grin. Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi, <em> embarrassed</em>. Who would have fucking thought.</p><p>“Let’s go, then,” he prompts and Sakusa nods jerkily. </p><p>Sakusa has barely taken a step when Atsumu notices something and says, “Wait.” </p><p>He takes his bag from Sakusa and digs into a pocket until he finds his awful heavy duty Sakusa-approved hand sanitizer. He holds it out expectantly.</p><p>Sakusa just looks at him in that stupid deadpan. Atsumu jiggles the hand holding the sanitizer impatiently. “My hands were ten kinds of gross right now. Yer holding yer hand weirdly and doin’ the entire internal freakout thing. Give it.”</p><p>Sakusa finally acquiesces and allows Atsumu to squeeze a dollop onto his hand. </p><p>“Thank you,” he says quietly as he rubs it in.</p><p>Atsumu raises his eyebrows. “Can ya say that again but on video?”</p><p>Sakusa exhales the first beginnings of a laugh, chin dipping and the dimple on his left cheek barely showing. “Asshole,” he says. Atsumu thinks he would die if Sakusa laughed for real one day.</p><p>Their clothed arms brush for the entire fifteen minutes walk to the apartment complex.</p><p> </p><p>When Sakusa unlocks his door, he looks visibly unsettled.</p><p>“Ya know, I live just across the hall. Ya don’t hafta do this.”</p><p>Sakusa scowls. “I don’t do things that I don’t want to do, Miya.”</p><p>Atsumu throws up his hands in a placating gesture. Sakusa opens the door and enters, slipping off his shoes and socks at the genkan, and setting his bag, wallet and keys on the cabinet by the entryway. He glances back as Atsumu follows.</p><p>“Bathroom is down the hall to the right. I’ll set out clothes for you.”</p><p>“I can run back and get my own clothes if ya want.”</p><p>Sakusa cuts him with another glare. </p><p>“Got it, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says and then, teeth bared into a grin that feels the most genuine he’s had all day, because his impulse control is shacking up with Suna Rintarou in the flat above Onigiri Miya: “If ya wanted to see me in yer clothes so bad, ya just had to ask.”</p><p>He watches in horrified fascination as Sakusa looks away, the tips of his ears reddening. “Miya.”</p><p>Atsumu’s breath stutters in his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna go. Take that shower.”</p><p>He slips off his shoes, strips off his socks and tucks them in, and empties all his pockets onto the cabinet. Sakusa moves further into the apartment and disappears into his bedroom. The apartment has a similar framework to his own apartment, just reversed, but things are much neater. A row of succulents is arranged on the windowsill at the end of the living room, a knee level covered book-case contains meticulously arranged books and a brown cushy couch faces a small television set. A bookmarked book lies on the low table in front of the couch. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and sweetness.</p><p>It’s all achingly Sakusa. Atsumu wonders when he turned into such a fucking sap.</p><p>He makes his way to the bathroom when he hears clattering from the bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and strips down to his boxers, hanging up his gross clothes. As he switches the water heater on, there’s a soft knock on the door and it opens. Sakusa’s eyes flicker down his body and Atsumu, someone who hasn’t felt embarrassed about nakedness ever since he was born with a twin brother, feels his face heat up.</p><p>“Uh,” he says. “Hey, Omi-kun.”</p><p>Sakusa determinedly looks away and hangs a towel and clothes on the hooks. “Goodbye, put everything back into its place when you’re done,” he says in one breath and leaves.</p><p>Atsumu is so fucked.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu comes out of Sakusa’s bathroom, smelling like Sakusa after using Sakusa’s shampoo and Sakusa’s soap (the sweetness is, as it turns out, papaya and honey), wearing Sakusa’s clothes (the neon pink sweatshirt’s sleeves are longer than his arms, and he needed to roll up the pants twice - it’s only slightly embarrassing), and he’s greeted with the sight of Sakusa himself flopped laxly on the couch, looking at the ceiling. He’s changed into black sweatpants and a soft fleece pullover. It’s the most relaxed Atsumu’s ever seen him, so he just. Stops. And stares.</p><p>Sakusa, as if sensing his presence, turns his head and looks at him, head to toe. A curl falls across his forehead with the movement and Atsumu’s hands twitch with need. Neither of them look away this time.</p><p>“We gotta stop meeting like this,” Atsumu finally cracks. He thinks Sakusa almost smiles.</p><p>Sakusa shifts so that he’s sitting instead and gestures at the covered glass of water on the table. “I think you need that.”</p><p>Atsumu sits down next to him and reaches for the glass of water. “Are ya telling me I’m actin’ too thirsty?” he asks, voice thin and a few octaves too high.</p><p>Sakusa procures a strip of painkillers from his pocket and throws it at him. Atsumu catches it reflexively. “You are ridiculous. That’s for the headache. And drink that entire glass, you sobbed all your water out.”</p><p>Atsumu bares his teeth at him in a grin and obliges. “Don’ remember that anymore.”</p><p>“Don’t do that.”</p><p>Atsumu doesn’t look at him and rolls the empty glass in his hands.</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Deflect.”</p><p>Sakusa pries the glass from his grip and sets it back on the table. He leans over the side of the couch and procures a battered, faded blue and yellow volleyball. He gives it to Atsumu who immediately latches on, mapping the furrows with his fingers.</p><p>“I don’t do that,” Atsumu lies.</p><p>“Liar,” Sakusa shoots back. Pauses. “You’re allowed to have issues and.” Another pause. Sakusa clasps his hands together as if in a prayer and curls his body inwards. “And you can - talk about them. With me. I guess. Or anyone else.”</p><p>Atsumu grips the volleyball tighter, his palm curving over the shape. He doesn’t say anything.</p><p>“You don’t have to have a reason,” Sakusa continues and turns his head towards him. Atsumu avoids his persistent gaze in favour of spinning the ball between his hands. “To feel what you feel. I do it all the time. You know my - issues. With.” He gestures vaguely at everything. “Everything,” he completes.</p><p>“And you help. Me, I mean. I trust you. I would like to help you too, if you would let me.” At this, Sakusa’s face looks like he’s eaten a sour grape.</p><p>“Coulda looked happier when you said that,” Atsumu mutters and then sticks out his tongue at the glare Sakusa shoots his way. He can’t believe they’re talking about feelings. “I - get what you’re saying. And I trust you too.” Atsumu’s face is on fire, how the hell did Sakusa say that without burning up from the inside. He wants to dig into himself, pry open the darkest parts of himself and lay them out for Sakusa to judge. He wants Sakusa to do the same. He wants to go back to his apartment and never come out. </p><p>“And I will,” he says finally. “But it’s a - lot and I need. Time.”</p><p>And Sakusa says, “I have that.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>They look at each other. Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi with his earnest face and beautiful eyes trusts Miya Atsumu with his tattered ego and temper tantrums. Atsumu blows out a gusty sigh. He feels a dam in his heart break and he’s so angry, he's always so fucking angry.</p><p>“God, fuck you.”</p><p>Sakusa blinks. “Back at you,” he says without a pause. Atsumu wants to smack him on the lips with his mouth.</p><p>“I can’t take this,” Atsumu says to Sakusa’s volleyball. “Can ya stop being nice for a second so a guy can breathe. What the fuck is wrong with ya? Why can’t ya leave a man to drown in his tears and mope alone like a normal fuckin’ person would do, Omi? Why the fuck am I in yer apartment righ’ now? Why do ya want to have conversations about my fucked up issues? The fuck are ya playing at? Do you know what yer even doing ta -”</p><p>Sakusa’s hand breaches his personal space midway and tucks itself under his chin, forcing Atsumu to look at him. He searches Atsumu’s face.</p><p>“You know why,” he says.</p><p>Atsumu glares. “Ya don’t <em> understand</em>. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at anything except this stupid game. I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin this and <em> you </em> and I’m gonna lose - ow, ow, <em> ow</em>, fuck!” </p><p>Sakusa has shifted his hand so it’s holding onto one of his cheeks and pulling on it hard. Atsumu loses his grip on the volleyball and it bounces on the floor as he tries to swat away Sakusa’s hand.</p><p>“Shut up for once in your goddamn life.” The venom in Sakusa’s voice makes Atsumu pause. Sakusa loosens his grip and lets go of his cheek in order to grab at the sleeve of Atsumu’s sweatshirt. “<em>You</em>. You’re so fucking annoying. I can’t stand you sometimes. You never shut up. You have an ego the size of Mount Fuji. You just automatically adjust around what people need without breaking a sweat. You act like I’m not a fucking freak for being the way I am - like I’m <em>normal</em>. You think I like feeling whatever this is? You think <em>I’m</em> <em>good</em> at whatever this is? You make me so mad I can’t. God. <em>Fuck</em> you. Every single time I look at you, I want to strangle you.”</p><p>Sakusa is panting slightly by the end, blotches of red high on his cheeks. He looks beautiful. His fingers twist further into Atsumu’s sleeve. Atsumu opens his mouth and then closes it.</p><p>In retrospect, he thinks he may be a little in love.</p><p>“Atsumu,” Sakusa <em> fucking </em> Kiyoomi says, “I like you. Romantically. Probably. Regrettably. I want to know everything about you. If there’s anything anyone’s going to ruin, it’s going to be me who does the ruining. I’ll kill you if <em> you </em> try to do it.”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“I have a list,” Atsumu blurts out.</p><p>Sakusa stares at him. “What?”</p><p>“About ya. It’s a notebook. 126 points. 127 now I think, ya do this weird floppy thing when you’re relaxed, it’s fucking creepy, also kinda cute. Ya do both of those things together a lot. I have a list.”</p><p>“Atsumu,” Sakusa says slowly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”</p><p>“A list of your habits. So I don’t overstep. Boundaries, I mean. Overstep boundaries. Do you want to see?”</p><p>“Um,” Sakusa replies. Atsumu staggers up. It’s do or fucking die, and it’s probably going to be the latter.</p><p>“Wait here,” he says.  “Just - wait.”</p><p>He barrels out the door, haphazardly pulling on shoes and grabbing his keys. It takes him less than a minute to come back. He sanitizes his hands at the doorway, and the plastic front and back covers of the small notebook for good measure. He enters back into the living room where Sakusa sits frozen.</p><p><em> I’m going to regret this, </em> he thinks. <em> I’m going to regret this so much. I’m going to have nightmares about this specific moment forever until I die and Osamu is going to laugh at my funeral. </em></p><p>“I’m gonna warn you,” he says. “I’ve been told this is kinda creepy.”</p><p>He sits down beside Sakusa, sets the notebook on the table and nudges it towards him.</p><p>“I sanitized the cover. Not the paper, obviously, but like. Yeah.”</p><p>Sakusa picks up the notebook tentatively and looks at it. “What.”</p><p>“Just open it,” Atsumu says.</p><p>Sakusa opens it. He flips a page and then another. Surfs through the entire thing without even a twitch of an eyebrow. Atsumu vibrates beside him.</p><p>Sakusa lets the notebook fall shut and stares at the back cover for a long time.</p><p>“You have atrocious handwriting,” he says finally. </p><p>“I know,” Atsumu says miserably.</p><p>“You are extremely stupid.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you called <em>volleyball</em> stupid.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“I’m going to kiss you now.”</p><p>“I - what?”</p><p>One of Sakusa’s terrible knobbly beautiful hands comes up to cup Atsumu’s cheek and - Atsumu fucking gives up. He lets himself lean forward with Sakusa, as if drawn by a magnet, his hand raising slowly to cup the back of Sakusa’s neck, tracing the soft hair there. Their foreheads rest together, lips inches apart.</p><p>“This is a bad idea,” Atsumu breathes against Sakusa’s lips.</p><p>“Do you think I care,” Sakusa says, and he closes the gap.</p><p>Sakusa’s lips are as soft as they look, Atsumu thinks dazedly. He gently tilts Sakusa’s head so their noses don't bump anymore - <em>oh</em>, that’s better. They kiss, a warm press of lips, once, twice, for what seems like a few seconds, a few ages and slowly, Sakusa pulls away. His lips are red, his eyes half-lidded and his cheeks flushed. Atsumu doesn’t think he is any better.</p><p>Atsumu moves the hand which has managed to tangle into the front of Sakusa’s sweatshirt up and presses his thumb to the moles on his forehead like he has wanted to forever.</p><p>He feels the lightest he’s ever been. </p><p>“Fuck,” he says. “If I just had to have a breakdown for this to happen, I woulda done it every day." He pauses. "That would kinda suck though.”</p><p>Sakusa just tilts his head so their foreheads touch again. “Idiot” he says and Atsumu doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the fondness in the insult.</p><p>“I don’t ever wanna stop kissing ya,” Atsumu continues. “Ugh, this is so fucking gross.”</p><p>Sakusa smiles his half-smile. Atsumu touches his stupid dimple just because he can.</p><p>“You were the one who wrote a book about me, asshole.”</p><p>“It’s not a book,” Atsumu says heatedly, gently stroking his hand across Sakusa’s cheek. “It’s a <em> list.</em> And ya gave that dramatic speech 'n all. Ya <em> like </em> me.”</p><p>Sakusa closes his eyes and exhales his non-laugh laugh. “Disgusting.” His hand slips into Atsumu’s hair and pulls him closer.</p><p>Atsumu doesn’t close his eyes. He drinks in the sight of Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi cradled so perfectly between his hands. “I don’ wanna fuck this up.”</p><p>“<em>We </em> will <em> try </em> not fuck this up.”</p><p>“Kiyoomi,” he whispers, "when the fuck did ya learn what teamwork is?"</p><p>Sakusa <em>fucking</em> Kiyoomi shuts him up with a kiss. Atsumu finds that he doesn't mind it much.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
--<br/>
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</p><p>
  <b>FOUR MONTHS LATER</b>
</p><p>Atsumu wakes up because he can’t breathe. And then he realises he can’t breathe because Sakusa Kiyoomi has his nose pinched tightly between his fingers.</p><p>He swats at the hand holding onto his nose and his boyfriend lets go readily. </p><p>“Good morning,” he says. “Obviously, still sleeping. Do you know what a phone is, Atsumu? Perhaps the alarm feature? Or a setting other than ‘do not disturb’?”</p><p>Atsumu still feels a thrill run down his back at hearing Kiyoomi say his given name. He can’t wait to start being normal at it. He gives Kiyoomi a limp glare instead. And then he pauses as his mind clears itself of the sleep fog -</p><p>“Wha’ the fuck are ya doin’ here?”</p><p>Kiyoomi straightens and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a neon green monstrosity of a tracksuit, zipped up to his chin. “Decided to come back early,” he says tightly, his unmasked nose wrinkled. “I’m here until the off-season ends.”</p><p>Atsumu blinks. He swats his hands at his nightstand and switches on his phone and looks at the time (11:09 AM) and looks back at his beautiful bastard. Looks back at his phone and the date. He feels a goofy grin climb up his face.</p><p>“<em>Ki-yo-omi-kun</em>,” he croons gleefully. Kiyoomi visibly cringes and turns away, but not before Atsumu sees a smile fighting its way onto his face. </p><p>“Brush your teeth if you want to touch me,” he says and leaves the room. Atsumu picks himself up on his elbows and shamelessly gawks at his neon green ass. </p><p>“I know ya love me, baby girl,” he yells and ducks into the bathroom before Kiyoomi can come back and rip him a new one.</p><p>He carefully cleans up and creeps into his kitchen. He passes by Kiyoomi’s suitcase sitting beside the couch and his shoes sitting perfectly at the genkan. Something in his chest swells.</p><p>Kiyoomi is shovelling eggs onto two plates and doesn’t react when Atsumu flops heavily onto his back.</p><p>“Is this my Valentine’s breakfast?” Atsumu wonders out loud. “Is this Sakusa Kiyoomi coming back from home and sweepin’ me off my feet ‘cause he missed his hunk of a boyfriend so much? Is my asshole gonna give me a kiss-kiss before I collapse in agony?”</p><p>Kiyoomi finishes setting up the plates and turns in Atsumu’s arms. Atsumu is grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “You,” Kiyoomi says, his lips twitching upward, left cheek dimpling, “are so fucking annoying.” </p><p>They lean in and meet each other in the middle.<br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>(It isn’t perfect - Atsumu still has his bad days and Kiyoomi has his. They’re pretty shit at speaking about feelings sometimes. </p><p>But then Atsumu sanitizes Kiyoomi’s seat at a restaurant without breaking conversation and learns how to cook his favourite dishes even though he sucks at it, and Kiyoomi surprises him with stupid volleyball themed gag gifts which Atsumu proudly displays on his nightstand and comes back early after visiting family to make him breakfast on fucking <em>Valentine’s Day</em>.</p><p>When it comes down to it, they’re both stubborn bastards about everything volleyball <em> and </em> each other - so it is pretty damn close to perfection, if you’re asking for Miya Atsumu’s professional opinion.)</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1. continuity? i don't know her and it shows &lt;3</p><p>2. bokuto, off his shit: i miss u keiji :(<br/>akaashi, already packing his bags: pick me up at 1PM tomorrow. </p><p>3. NOW if you've read it this far, thank you. i can't understand why, but holy shit. thank you so much. i love you. i hope you have a wonderful day.</p><p>4. i wrote this after a 4 year long slump and i just. get a load of this cringe, fellas. again, thank you for reading this. i don't know if it is coherent anymore. i hate it the more i read it. words are hard.</p><p>edit: hi. i didn't expect all the nice comments and got a littlelot overwhelmed. now it's too late to catch up and reply to all of them so i'll just do it here: </p><p>oh man, i just. truly, i love you and i'm glad i could make you smile or feel even a little better. knowing that makes ME feel better - so, so, so much better, you have no idea. i may have shed a few tears. have a good day and take care of yourselves &lt;3 thank you so much.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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